


Measured out my life in coffee spoons

by Devilthatcrys



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Coffee, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Prufrock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:02:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilthatcrys/pseuds/Devilthatcrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long time of waiting</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measured out my life in coffee spoons

The sound of the beans circling in a coffee mill splits the morning. The whole rite of the coffee making can be read through them like the Braille’s alphabet – from the entirety of the rain-raised bean up to the micro particles, concealing the answers to the future on the bottom of the cup. The brightening whiteness or ceramics is the second half of the noir palette. There is a desire to wave a necklace from the lingering smell and take it into the cold wasteland of the city, underling the jugular fourfold. The all-knowing ibis of a barman fills the cup without being asked, moving like the coffee smell has wrapped him as a tangly caramel. Can one really measure out the life in coffee spoons or is it given to the poets only? The sharp argent of a tablecloth is merging with the bland ceramics under the thoughtful watch of grey-blue eyes, turning the natura morte into a simple black circle on a white background. It seems, that the blue of the shirt sleeves starts to whiten along with the surrounding monochromes, and he himself, pale and tired, will fuse with the gloomy window pane and disappear.  
The little bell near the door drags him out of the daze. No, not Him.  
The coffee smells divinely, but the fingers and lips suffer from hydrophobia or the eyes have gotten afraid of the last vivid spot. Waiting… Waiting again… He hates to wait, but it is the way he was brought up, that being late and chasing the seconds is much worse. A sip. The brown darkness of the brew worms into the throat and seeps into the lungs, filling the out breath with it’s aroma. Will the lip taste of it as well? Would He want to kiss him, tasting the brew not from the clod ceramics but from the wanton mouth? Embarrassed by these thoughts he casts his eyes downwards.  
Waiting…  
Today he’ll do it, he’ll enclothe his desires into words and will tell Him everything, will rip the immaculately chosen shirt over his sternum and lay himself up to the fangs. That smile, damn, such a rushing desire to taste it, to know how long it lasts on the pre-orgasm agony and how soon it comes back.  
Another ring of the bell and it’s still not Him.  
The nerves are gnawing holes in the pre-prepared meeting script, long fingers digging into the table-top and the passing waitress is throwing a worried glance at him. He is a bit similar to her, maybe not on the inside, almost like the nature chose two exact opposites of genetic material, but on the inside – following the object of desire with your eyes not being able to move, almost like being under a spell. But today he will rip off that invisible similarity, voicing his hunger and would be either engulfed in the ginger flame or destroyed by it.  
Ding! HE!  
Michael is standing on the threshold and the dawning whiteness of his shirt is so different to the dull monochrome of the café, the smile of a rare unhungover morning is shining, and the aviator glasses are hiding the luring gleam of is eyes.  
“Hey, Ben, how are you doing?”  
He is coming closer, grasps Benedict’s hand and slaps him on a shoulder, not seeing the halting breath and the heated roar of blood at all.  
“M, hi”  
“You wanted to talk?”  
“Yes, I…”  
A willowy woman, who entered just after Michael, puts her hands onto his shoulders and whispers something. The ginger bearded casanova laughs and introduces them, but Benedict doesn’t give a damn. His pre-prepared script is burnt and he is back to the contrast of white and dark – now just the flesh and cloth. He says something about the plans, the shooting, director’s cut and goes up to the bar.  
The waitress is putting the coffee beans from a bag into a jar and the jingle of the glass awakens the voice.  
“Would you like to go to my place?”   
The burst of the green eyes and the rustle of beans on the floor are the answer, but he thinks of only one thing – in how many coffee spoons can he measure this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> References to Benny's favourite "The love of Alfred Prufrock"  
> Non-english-speaking author.


End file.
